When He Says Hi
by aliasaurorasaccounthasmoved
Summary: Series of related Royai oneshots; Riza's POV; Blanket rating; Roy starts every conversation with the simplest of greetings: "Hi."
1. Age Six

**Story Title: When He Says Hi  
**

**Chapter Title: Age Six**

**Word count: 687 (not counting AN)**

**This is my somewhat crappy attempt at Royai, I'm really an EdWin girl myself but no author should get stuck in a rut! They're kind of like a series of collected oneshots, I think there will be four altogether but maybe more if I get a good response. This particular one is slightly AU because I don't think Roy and Riza knew each other when they were this age. Manga as canon. Riza's POV for all of them. Mercilessly gun me down if I get her character wrong.  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA. (Yet. *laughs evilly*)  
**

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Originally, it was our parents that knew each other. Our first meeting was in the middle of our parents meeting up, at his house, and I was nervous because everybody here was either an adult or a stranger or both.

I wouldn't even sit on the couch like my parents—that's how scared I was—I stood stiffly by the door, like a sentry (a word I was proud to say I knew), and crossed my fingers against the hope that Mommy and Dad would be done soon. (I didn't even know why they were here.)

He was only six years old, just like me, but his was his house so he wasn't really nervous and scared like I was, and it didn't seem like he had as much of a problem as I did with strangers, because he talked to me, and since my lips were pressed together so tight I looked violently angry, this can't have been a small feat.

"Hi."

"Hi." Because six-year-olds aren't good enough for 'hello.'

"My name's Roy."

"I'm Elizabeth."

"Your mom called you Riza."

"That's what people call me, mostly."

"Oh." He paused. "Have you ever kissed a boy?" This must have been his way of flirting with me. He's been a womanizer since the cradle.

"No."

"I kissed a girl once. Her name was Mary. She was _seven years old,_" he bragged. A whole year; that made her an _older woman_ by our count.

"Wow. Was she your girlfriend?"

He shook his head, his thick, dark locks falling into his eyes; he needed a haircut. "Nope," he said proudly, popping the P. "My dad said don't get stuck in the rut of monogumy." I found out later that Roy's dad was gone, and that was how come Roy used the past tense, but I didn't know that until much later. I had just assumed his foster parents were his real ones, and he never corrected me.

"What's munagummy?"

"That's when you only love one person for a long time and you get married and stuff. It's real boring."

"But then, aren't princesses and people who live happily ever after munagummy-ers?"

"Yeah, but they're different 'cause those people lived in the mid-evil times, back when everybody had a horse and they didn't use any paper when they went to the bathroom."

"Medieval," I corrected. "It's spelled M-E-D-I-... um, and I forget the rest, but that was one of my spelling words."

"Me too but I don't really 'meberize my spelling words because you don't need spelling to be the owner of a bar and that's what I'm gonna be when I'm bigger. Like ten, I think."

"Why do you want to be the owner of a bar when you're ten?"

"'Cause then I can give free drinks to all of my girlfriends and I'll be the most popular ten-year-old ever."

"Well..." I fumbled for something to beat his story, found nothing, and changed the subject. "My dad's an alchemist, and he's the smartest one ever, and he said he let me have half his smartness and half of my mom's smartness and so that makes me the smartest girl ever so _there_."

"What's an _alchemist_ do? Boring stuff, that's what. I know what alchemists are, they're just big losers who turn lead into gold when they're broke."

"Nuh-uh! My dad can make big explosions and turn a pile of bricks into a building and do all kinds of stuff that I bet _your_ dad couldn't do 'cause _he_'s not an alchemist!"

"Are you telling the truth?" he asked suspiciously.

I put my hands on my hips and glared. "Are you calling me a liar?"

He seemed to understand that I was a force to be reckoned with, and he backed down. "Uh-uh! I wouldn't call you a liar, you're too scary—I mean, pretty and nice and stuff! And—and—and—when I grow up I'm gonna be an alchemist like your daddy, how's that?"

I bit the inside of my lip to keep from laughing out loud. "Okay, then that's settled."

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**Translations:**

"Munagummy-ers" = Riza means "monogamists;"

"Monagumy"/"Munagummy" = Phonetic misspellings of "monogamy;"

"'Memberize" = Roy is confusing "remember" with "memorize" and dropping the "re-", so it came out like this;

"My dad said he let me have half of his smartness and half of my mom's smartness" = Riza's six-year-old understanding of genetics.

**Please review, I'll post the next chapter when I get five of them.  
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	2. Age Fifteen

**I know I said I'd wait until I had five reviews to post the next chapter but I think I'm not gonna get any more, considering the two I DID get were received on the first day this was posted. Seeing as I have the entirety of this fic done I might as well update.**

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Fifteen was an uncomfortable age for me. I was just as unsure about myself as everyone else, and I had to worry about things like being flat-chested and whether or not I was 'scary' (my friends' words, not mine)–because apparently that was why I was smack in the middle of my teenage years and no boys had asked me out, even though privately I was glad. I couldn't—or wouldn't—let myself figure out why... that would come later. (Much later.)

Sixteen was when I cut my hair short the first time, and it would stay that way for nearly a decade. At fifteen, though, I still wore my hair long, though not always down. Despite the inherent vanity that accompanied my adolescence, I spent precious little time on my appearance.

On this particular day I was wearing it in my ponytail, which I thought was kind of fun because it bounced when I walked. So I was bouncing, walking down the halls of my high school, pretending like I was one of the girls who was pretty and popular and whatever else I was supposed to be. Contrary to popular belief, even teenagers themselves don't understand their own concepts such a popularity. We could tell you who was popular and who was not, but we were never certain about those on-the-fence-people like me and Roy.

Roy... ah, he was a special case. Roy wasn't very well-liked by the other boys, I could tell. Of course, the girls loved him—the girls had always loved him—but the other boys didn't like to associate with him. He had grown up pretty, and therefore arrogant and commanding. Good qualities to have if you were a military officer, as he would become later, but if you were a high school kid trying to fit in, it wasn't a great idea to go out of your way to stand out as he did. And of course, I didn't help that he was on the fact track out of here, graduating sophomore year and apprenticing himself with my father and getting ready to become the youngest state alchemist. He planned to join up when he was only eighteen.

Again, that didn't endear him to the other kids, whose idea of future planning extended all the way to the weekend after this one.

Since he was apprenticing himself to my father, and we had known each other for practically forever, I was almost obligated to talk to him. Of course, _I_ never minded—but as I said, that would come later.

Now, where was I? Oh, right, I was bouncing and being beautiful, knowing it wouldn't last long, which it didn't—Roy appeared behind me as I was bouncing to class, tugging on my ponytail to announce his arrival (as was his way at that age).

When I turned, he just said, "Hi."

"Hi." (Our vocabularies hadn't improved all that much since we were children, apparently.)

"Umm..." He was searching for something to say. I didn't assist. "Can I come straight to your house after school?"

"My dad won't be there, he has a thing," I waved my hand vaguely to illustrate the fact that I had no idea what this engagement was, only that I knew he had one.

"Oh." He hesitated again. I gathered that he was uncomfortable, and I assumed it was my fault. In my self-absorbed teenage mind, it was always my fault. I justified this by telling myself that I thought that because it was always true. Looking back, it's amazing how many things I beat myself up over that weren't my fault.

"So, has anyone asked you out for homecoming?" he asked to make conversation.

"I'm not going," I responded. That meant, 'No one's asked me but I don't want you to think I'm a loser..'

"Oh, that's lame, how come?"

_Not this old routine again._ Why didn't they just come right out and ask me to lie to their faces? "Oh, I don't know, a lot of reasons. I don't feel like dress shopping, the tickets are too expensive since they raised the prices this year, and anyway I hear the theme is stupid this year. I just don't wanna go."

"It'll be fun. And I bet you'd look prettier in a dress." He made a thoughtful face.

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, having learned his lesson about getting me angry long ago.

"It sounded like it meant _something_," I countered.

"I didn't mean any harm by it, Riza! Just that you never really act like a girl, or dress like one." True, I did live in jeans, but he didn't have to be so blunt about it! I crossed my arms against my chest (_my_ _nonexistent chest,_ my insecure side painfully reminded me) and scowled at him, demanding further explanation with my glare alone.

"No, no, no, no, no! That came out wrong," Roy stuttered. (I was the only one who made him stutter like that when we were kids. I wish I'd noticed the signs earlier, but I never allowed myself to believe them.) "You're just, you know, different than most girls!"

"How so?" I asked, not appreciating where this was going.

"Well, um, for one, you always wear your hair up." He tugged my ponytail again. "See? And for another, you never, ever, ever, ever, ever wear a skirt. I just was thinking that if you changed up your outfit a little, it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"So basically, I should go to homecoming so you can see me in a dress," I summarized, unamused.

Roy gave me a sideways smirk. "If I'd known you were going to take it this way, I would have just came right out and _said_ that."

"You aren't as cute as you think," I informed him. "And I hate to break it to you, but hell will freeze over before you will find me in a skirt."

"Is that a challenge?" he joked.

"Shall we make it one?" I jested back.

Roy offered his hand to shake on it. "It's a deal."

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**_Voila!_ I have answered the age-old question of why Roy wants to put all the women of the army in miniskirts! This chapter was surprsingly hard, even though I'm actually the age they are in this one (a year older actually, sixteen, but they are sophomores, as am I), and I don't know if I got it quite right. Let me know how I did, please!**


	3. Age Twenty Two

It's a fact of life that the battlefield is a harsh place for young people to spend their first years of adulthood. It's also a fact that young people are the most qualified to be there. We're in our prime of life: young, strong, and flexible. We're also idealistic enough to fight for concepts such as "our country" and "freedom" and "democracy" when in our heart of hearts we know it's all been concocted by our politicians, who are really trying to meet their own ends.

Of course, the intents and machinations of politicians mean little when you're in the middle of a war zone.

For three days, the area I was stationed in had been quiet. We thought we'd had it completely cleared, but without warning an armed guerrilla group ambushed us from the south, which I'd been perfectly aware was our weak point, and had been paying special attention to when it was my watch. Eventually the fighting got too close and the Ishbalan guerrillas got reinforcements, plus they started taking guns from our men who had gone down, which wasn't good news for us. After the initial half hour or so of gunfire my skills as a sniper from high up were no longer useful because of the proximity of the Ishbalan guerrillas, and I ended up on the ground, using the cover of the inner wall of a bombed-out building to shoot from.

Roy appeared next to me behind the wall, collapsed against it really, sweat running tracks in the dirt on his face. I wondered why he wasn't out in the front, then realized he wasn't simply taking a break—his left glove had been torn and as far as I was aware his right glove wasn't on him because he hadn't gotten it when the Ishbalans had ambushed us.

"Hi!" he shouted to be heard over the sound of fire and others shouting.

"Hi!" I shouted back, leaning over the wall, shooting thrice, then ducking back.

"Doing anything this weekend?" he joked to boost my morale. Since I was one of the very few women on the field, I ended up getting 'asked out' often. It always felt different to me when Roy did it, though—and when I was a child this would have been one of my latent realizations, but to be frank I think I had realized it by now. Not that it mattered—the field is just not the cleverest place to fall in love. _That_ would be what came later.

"Preferably not getting sent home in a coffin!" I yelled. "Your glove's torn!"

"I noticed!"

I shot a round of bullets, getting only one guy for certain, and dropped behind the wall again. "This isn't such a good time to go without weapons!"

"I know!" When I looked over, he had drawn his backup revolver and was firing over the wall as well, then he sank down to the safety of the half-destroyed wall and reached into another one of his pockets, producing an oil pen.

"Got a light?" he asked me as he was drawing a new transmutation circle directly onto his skin.

I didn't smoke but I still had one, and I pulled it out now and tossed the lighter over to him. He caught it dexterously with his ring and pinky fingers while holding the oil pen with his index, middle, and thumb. "Thanks, Riza!" he shouted at me as he put away the gun and the pen, "I'll call you later!"

I laughed hollowly and covered him as he ran back out into what I knew could easily be my death... or his.

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**I'd like to know how I did on this war scene. I feel confident about it but you never know! The final oneshot of this fic is done and will be put up whenever I fee like I've gotten an adequate response on this one. There might be more additions in the distant future if I get inspired again.**


	4. Age Thirty

As I got older, it became harder and harder to deny that I was in love with Roy. The first indisputable proof came when Lust told me she'd killed him.

I'd always been aware that Ishbal had destroyed my innocence, that a part of me had died. I thought I knew what that sort of death felt like. However, that assumption was ripped out from under me when I thought he was gone. It was one thing to lose my 'innocence,' but it was completely other to lose the only thing that I needed in my life, my one constant, my Colonel. It was incomprehensible.

By that time in my life, I had little left to me. My parents had been gone for years, God had clearly never been there, and now Roy had left. What else was there?

It was stupid of me to do, but I'd basically built my life around him, around his dream of becoming Fuhrer, around protecting him, around being his lieutenant, the one he could count on. When I became his constant, he became mine, and our lives were inextricable. When I thought he was gone, I realized there was nothing left for me. I lost my drive, my will to live. I was nothing without Roy.

_Please, Death, come quickly. My heart is gone. I need you._

And then—_and then!_

He'd been literally speared through by the homunculus, and Al and I were going the same way, but that man was just too stubborn to die, and as long as he was, I would be too. _Fuck you, Death, I've got my heart back._

After that, of course, there was no denying it. Like an idiot, I did so anyway. That point in my life was not a good time to have a sudden epiphany of love for him, so, like a good masochist, I repressed it.

I've always been of the opinion that someone should do a seminar on things that are idiotic. Telling yourself you're not in love with someone whom you know full well owns your heart should be the first lesson. It just doesn't work. And of course Roy kept reminding me of why I needed to be the one at his back, why I always _was_. Because he _deserved_ it—no one deserved loyalty more than him, and he gave it as much as he earned it. Maes' funeral is the only time I've ever seen him cry. After he'd killed Lust and Al and I rushed to his side, he didn't care about himself—all he worried about was that Jean got an ambulance. There's no comprehending that kind of loyalty. It doesn't makes sense and it doesn't have to. Even if I knew it was impossible to be as devoted as Roy was to them, I aspired to be the one who cared as much about Roy as he cared about his men. He was my inspiration.

After the so-called "Promised Day," there were huge celebrations and a general aura of "Everything's been solved" wherever I went. For me, the feeling was one of aimlessness. Roy was going to become the Fuhrer in place of Bradley (admittedly it was only him who had said that, and he was far form becoming official). Everything had gone almost _too _well.

What was I to do with myself? What do you do when your purpose in life is suddenly fulfilled? What happens _after_ happily ever after?

As it turns out, happily ever after is the loneliest part of the story.

It felt impossible to be depressed after all our problems were solved. I kept telling myself that I should be celebrating. I should smile and have fun and let my hair down (figuratively). Everyone I'd talked to lately was happy, partying, drinking, living it up, and I felt different, wrong, unnatural. I was the backdrop of many of the wild parties I was invited to, where there were more toasts than alcohol and people were in a hurry to drink all they could before the nausea set in.

I forced myself to attend every soirée and fete I was invited to, as if haunting them would magically cheer me up. Roy attended many of them as well, but for conspicuously different reasons. Namely, he enjoyed getting drunk and flirting with the women.

Today he had already succeeded in the former, and I think the alcohol had turned me into the latter, because as he came over to talk to me, he kept glancing at those objects six inches below my chin, and he was too drunk to be surreptitious about it.

"Hi."

"Hi," I said dryly, repressing the irony.

"Didn't know you were here, Lieutenant," he said slowly, considering every word carefully.

"I haven't been a lieutenant for a good while, Roy. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember that bit. That's how come you don't wear the uniform much anymore." He lurched a little and seized my shoulder to steady himself.

"Roy, you're pretty drunk," I said gently, like I was talking to a four-year-old. "Maybe it's time to go home."

"No, no, gimme a sec," he mumbled, screwing up his face as if thinking very hard about something. "There's something I'm forgetting. What is it?"  
"I don't know, Roy," I said, trying to take his glass from him. Whenever I reached forward, he retracted his arm and lifted it just beyond my reach. When I stepped closer to extend further, he lifted his arm and held the drink high in the air where I had no hope of getting it. I wasn't going to jump.

"Hey, wait, no, I got this," he pleaded. "I remember what I want to say to you now."

"Make it quick, then you're going home," I said impatiently.

"Riza." He rolled my name over his tongue like a candy. "Riza, Riza, Riza, Riza."

"Yes, thank you for reminding me of my name," I snapped, then while he wasn't paying attention I snatched the drink, causing him to pout and give me a cheap puppy-dog look, which I ignored. I sniffed the drink and realized that he had mixed a few different things, then scowled, set it aside when he wasn't looking, and draped his arm over my shoulder so he wouldn't wobble as I started walking him out.

"Something I got to say..." he slurred in a barely-there mumble, his idea of a protest.

"What is it?" I asked disinterestedly. I was now trying to help him navigate the stairs.

"Riza, I..." He trailed off and watched me half-dragging him down the steps with mild amusement, then impulsively darted his hand forward and grabbed the clip that held my hair back, squeezing it so it popped open.

"What are you doing?" I brushed my hair behind my ears as it fell forward and got in my eyes.

Roy tangled the fingers of the hand that was over my shoulder into my hair. "You're so pretty, Riza."

"I'd appreciate the compliment more if you weren't totally smashed." I walked him to my car, opened the passenger side door, and helped him negotiate his way into the seat.

"Yep, I'm smashed," he agreed, chuckling. "Flat out plastered! Three sheets to the wind."

"I noticed." When I tried to shut the passenger door, he stopped it from closing, then reached for me, missing entirely. "What?" I asked, realizing he wanted to pull me closer.

"I love you." He gave me the gentlest look he could manage, for about three seconds. Then he grimaced and tipped forward, leaning his head out the door, holding his stomach. "Oh shit, I'm going to be sick."

I patted his head with less sympathy than condescension. "Again, this would be cute if you weren't so thoroughly inebriated." The trick was going to be making him say it when he was sober, but if anyone could do it I knew I could. My depression had been squelched—I had a purpose again.

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**And for now, that's the end of this fic, unless I get inspired for it again. Please don't forget to review!**


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